


break me in

by thundersquall



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Dirty Talk, Edgeplay, M/M, Nipple Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2643101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundersquall/pseuds/thundersquall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tazer is obsessed with Kaner's nipples. (Really just an excuse to write pure filth for Kaner's birthday.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	break me in

**Author's Note:**

> This happened thanks to these pics of Kaner with his amazingly perky nipples and his body: [(1)](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v85/thundersquall/http3A2F2F40.media.tumblr.com2F0b06e2faf3809b5a6fbdfce25af51e282Ftumblr_msig41FTfK1qfice8o1_500.png~original), [(2)](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v85/thundersquall/IMG_20141119_004228.jpg~original), [(3)](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v85/thundersquall/foDVuXYbOV.jpg~original), [(4)](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v85/thundersquall/tumblr_inline_nf9nljzHVc1rqv4fs.png~original)
> 
> Happy birthday Kaner! ♥♥♥

The first time Jonathan notices it is when Patrick comes sloping in for morning skate one day, hair a mess of tangled curls and still knuckling the sleep from his eyes. 

Patrick usually likes to wear soft baggy sweatshirts or worn henleys a size too big for him so they drape over his smaller frame, hanging loosely off his chest and waist. Sometimes, if he feels like dressing up (not that his version of _dressing up_ is actually, you know, still any good at all), he wears fitted button-downs, open at the neck, skimming his sides, but still with a good give to them. He doesn’t like his clothing too tight, thinks it feels too restrictive for him.

But today – today Patrick comes into the locker room, shrugs off his coat, and underneath he's wearing a fucking _tight_ tee that clings to every dip and curve of his musculature. It looks fucking painted on, and the sight of it slams Jonathan like a puck to his face, stunning and somehow primal and just bordering on the edge of obscene, how good Patrick looks in that.

And then – wait up – Jonathan has to backtrack his thoughts so fast that he involuntarily takes an actual, physical step backwards, in tandem with his brain screaming _rewind, go back, fucking hell_ , because he did _not_ just think Patrick Kane looks hot.

Except he does. He really, really does.

Jonathan's always been aware Pat's got a good body, obviously, he's seen him naked enough to know (and even to rub one out, sometimes, slightly guilty but loving it anyway, the visceral mental image of Patrick looming over him, caging him in, the curve of his trapezoids and deltoids and biceps flexing deliciously under Jonathan's hands or mouth). Patrick's shorter than most hockey players, but he's broad in the shoulders and across the chest, stocky and powerful and muscled, and really, this is a dangerous route for Jonathan's mind to take when they're in the locker room surrounded by the team, and he's only in his underarmour, not enough to hide a boner if one pops up inconveniently.

And talking about Patrick's chest – Jesus, fuck, the shirt is pulled so tight over Pat's chest that his nipples can be seen clearly, pressing stiff up against the fabric, loudly announcing their presence.

Jonathan has to sit down, right now, and he pulls his pads over his lap as casually as he can to cover his fucking inconvenient and disobedient half-chub, while pretending to check his skate blades so he can tear his eyes away from Patrick.

Patrick doesn’t give him any reprieve, though. He's all up in Jonny's space, crowding him into his stall. "Dude, you okay? You look kind of sick."

"What? No, I'm not sick," Jonathan grunts, keeping his eyes fixed on his skates and his head down. Patrick's standing close enough that even with his eyes lowered he can see his legs, encased in tight black jeans. What the fuck. Did Patrick just decide to wake up today and pour paint over his body to pass as clothing, or what?

"Your face is all red," Patrick says, and he sounds doubtful. "You sure you're not coming down with something? It's been super cold out. Maybe you're coming down with a cold." Then Pat's hand is on his forehead, feeling for a fever, pressing hard and ungentle, and Jonathan knocks his hand away just on instinct, glaring up at him.

"I'm fine, god," he says, and fuck, fuck, maybe he shouldn’t have looked up, because now Pat's nipples are staring _right at him_ , totally in his face, twin raised pebbles on the slopes of Patrick's glorious pecs.

"Okay, fine, Mr. Fucking Grumpy, see if I ever show you a shred of concern again if you really are sick," Patrick says, exasperated, and he finally steps away from Jonathan, only to pull his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. Jonathan catches sight of his nipples before he turns his back, dusky against his fair skin, and it's just ridiculous, because Jonathan's seen Patrick's nipples about ten million times and has never got so worked up by them. He's never given much thought to them, to be honest, when they're just there, and they look normal on his bare skin, not overly large or raised, but under that skintight tee, they were somehow outlined clear as day, magnified, forcing themselves to the front of Jonathan's vision.

When he gets home to his condo after morning skate, he jerks off in the shower, thinking about holding Patrick down under him while his tongue traces circles around a stiff nipple, Patrick moaning and writhing in his hold and under his mouth, and comes in like, less than two minutes, fuck.

___

 

The second time Jonathan notices it is a couple months later, when PR have arranged for them to do an interview with Kathryn Tappen, and Patrick is late, as usual.

The thing is, Jonathan's more or less forgotten about the whole thing with Pat's body and nipples since then, because Patrick really doesn’t wear clingy clothing often, and somehow the effect of his body is diminished under the shit he usually wears; and it's just _different_ when he sees Pat naked, he's not hyper-aware of his body the way he was when Patrick showed up that day in a skintight shirt.

Then Patrick comes rushing in, breathless and apologizing for being late, and Jonathan just rolls his eyes at him until he tugs off his jacket. He's wearing a cotton pullover which is a dark olive green, a colour that is absolutely not flattering to Pat's skin tone and blond curls, and yet. It fits loosely around his waist, but is stretched almost to bursting on Patrick's generous shoulders and chest, the material pulled sheer on his pecs, and – there they are – his fucking nipples standing all stiff and at full attention, again, like they're beaming _HELLO JONNY! HERE WE ARE!_ at him.

And, okay, they've definitely got his full attention now, and Jonathan is assailed by sudden vivid memories of his bathroom fantasy all those months ago, the phantom feel of Patrick's nipple on his tongue.

Fortunately, the stylists come up then and hustle Pat off to change and to get his hair and makeup done, and when Patrick finally emerges in a smart black suit identical to Jonathan's, nipples safely concealed under three layers of fabric, Jonathan lets out a breath he didn’t know he'd been holding.

But the shitty thing is that during the interview, he starts thinking about Patrick's nipples underneath the prim suit. Whether they'd be sensitive, brushing against the pressed starched fabric. Whether they're always swollen like that all the time, or is it just because Patrick's cold, or something. Whether Patrick even likes them fondled and licked and played with. It would be a crying shame if he has gorgeous stiff nipples like that but is one of those guys who doesn't really feel anything when someone engages in a little nipple play with them. Jonathan's like that, but it doesn't matter, because his aren't as, well, _commanding_ as Pat's are.

Kathryn Tappen stops the interview, then, because apparently she's been asking Jonathan something but he's been _too zoned out to answer_ , and Patrick leans over his chair, frowning, and whispers, "You all right?"

Jonathan swallows. "Yeah. I'm okay. Sorry. Was kinda distracted", and thank goodness his voice doesn’t come out sounding rough.

He gets himself together for the rest of the segment, and pulls it off nicely, more power to him when Patrick and his maddeningly hidden nipples are right next to him, grinning and pleased and all dimples and huge blue eyes.

The problem is – now that he's started thinking of Patrick's nipples under his clothes, he can't stop, and now they’re no longer confined to being noticeable and attractive only when he's in tight clothing.

Jonathan is _so_ fucked.

___

 

They have an away game two nights later, and Jonathan's palms are actually clammy where he's clenching them under the covers, as Patrick strips off unconcernedly in front of him and wanders off to the bathroom in their hotel room to shower.

He doesn’t want to look when Patrick comes back out, dripping all over the carpet with just a towel swathed loosely about his hips. He doesn’t want to, but he can't help it. Pat tugs the towel off and begins toweling his curls dry, humming under his breath, walking about like he doesn’t care that Jonathan is staring. Or more likely, he doesn’t realize it, since this is no different to what he's been doing hundreds of times while they room together on all their road trips.

Except now, Jonathan is so much more aware of what he's looking at, and much more cognizant of the pure want surging through his body when he looks at Patrick, the planes of the muscles on his body, his cock lying thick and soft against the solid firmness of his thigh, and of course those provoking nipples, dark and pebbled from the cold air in the room, everything fucking _wet_. There are beads of water clinging to the areolae of Pat's nipples that Jonathan just wants to press his mouth to and chase with his tongue.

His cock is so hard from just looking at Patrick; he's so screwed.

"You want to watch TV?" Patrick asks him as he finally drapes his towel over a chair and begins dressing; Jonathan tries not to look too disappointed when Patrick pulls on a pair of sweatpants, hiding those muscled thighs and his cock. He's somewhat mollified when Patrick yanks an old Honeybaked t-shirt over his head; it's threadbare and stretched wide from repeated wearing and washing and age, but Patrick's filled out so much since then that the shirt still fits tight over his shoulders and chest the way Jonathan wants it, nipples nicely outlined against the worn fabric. 

Jonathan has no idea how long he's been lying there staring, but the next time he blinks and looks up, Patrick's standing there still holding the remote out to him, and shit. Definitely staring for far too long, long enough for Pat to notice. Shit.

Patrick looks oddly unsure; his tongue darts out to lick at his lips, and god, Jonathan did _not_ need another thing to add to his repertoire of jerk-off material about his teammate and friend. It's kind of amazing how he'd never noticed all this about Pat before, until that day his nipples announced their presence, and then all of a sudden, everything Pat does is suddenly sexy as hell.

Patrick is still watching him, and his eyes have changed as he studies Jonathan, the uncertainy dropping off; they're darker, somehow, long lashes swept down like a curtain. That look is way too knowing for Jonathan's sanity.

"Sorry," Jonathan says, tearing his eyes away and flipping onto his stomach, mentally kicking himself, "sorry, I was thinking about something. No, I'm just gonna sleep."

"'Kay," Pat says softly, hits the lights, and climbs into his own bed.

Jonathan waits till Patrick's breathing has become deep and even, and then licks his palm before gripping his cock. He's aching so much for this that he can't even be bothered to take it to the bathroom; he needs to get off, like, an hour ago, and the thought that Patrick's right there, a few feet away from him, it's just going to get him off lightning-fast.

He presses a pillow into his face with his free hand as he works himself, trying to muffle his gasps and loud inhale-exhale of breath. Imagines Patrick's mouth on him, pretty lips wrapped around his cock, tonguing him wet. Imagines Patrick straddling him, riding his cock, thighs shaky from it, with Jonathan rubbing rough fingers over his nipples. Imagines sucking down Patrick's beautifully thick cock while tweaking a nipple, and Patrick coming down his throat, screaming his name.

Jonathan jerks, bites into the pillow, and comes when he imagines Patrick watching him from his bed with those darkened eyes, looking at Jonathan as he spurts into his fist, looking at Jonathan come _for him_ , thinking about him.

It isn’t until the fizzing of his blood in his ears has calmed down that Jonathan realizes: Patrick's shifted in his bed, his body now turned to face him, and though it's too dark in the room to see if he's awake or asleep, Patrick's breathing is noticeably faster, harsher, in the silence.

Well, fuck.

Jonathan stays tense and unmoving, but Pat doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, and Jonathan eventually relaxes.

___

 

They're sprawled on the sectional in Patrick's condo, playing NHL '10 – it's an old game, but Patrick stubbornly insists on playing it just because he's the cover star – and Jonathan is losing quite spectacularly. It's crazy, because he usually whips Pat's ass in games, but Pat is next to him in like nothing but tight boxer briefs and a fucking wifebeater. It's white and sheer enough that Jonathan can see his nipples, standing and greeting Jonathan again, _god_ , and his biceps were flexing as he worked the game controller, and really, Jonathan cannot be expected to pay full attention to a game when Patrick is pressed up against his side looking like that.

"I fucking win!" Pat crows, flinging his controller aside. Jonathan is so distracted, he can't even be bothered to think up a suitably stinging riposte. Instead he's focused on the sight of those damn nipples, dark beneath the white shirt, teasingly beckoning at him. "Get me another beer, loser."

"You get yourself your beer."

"Nope. I'm the winner here. You go get me the beer."

"How about fucking no?"

"You're a fucking sore loser, you know that?" Patrick complains, sitting up and shoving him.

Jonathan shoves back, purely on instinct, but Patrick turns towards him at the same time, and his hands land on his chest rather than his shoulders. The heel of his hand presses into one nipple, and Patrick _hisses_ , pushing into the touch for a mere second, before he twists away, a flush rising in his cheeks.

"Dude, what the fuck," he says, but Jonathan's known him for too long to know when his voice is shaky beneath the bravado, and Patrick doesn’t start blushing for no reason.

"Sorry," Jonathan says, hastily snatching his hand back. Except, you know, he isn’t really sorry at all, not with the feel of Patrick's hardened nipple under his palm still fresh, and the way Patrick had minutely pressed into it. His hands are getting sweaty again.

Patrick bites at his lower lip, worrying at it as if thinking about something, and Jonathan just can't tear his eyes away. Then he looks up at Jonathan from beneath his long lashes, and the look in his eyes is like the one he'd had when they were in the hotel a couple weeks ago, and he'd caught Jonathan staring, dark and knowing, his pupils dilating just a little. 

That look gives Jonathan enough courage to say, "You know – most people don’t hurt that much just from having a hand pressed on their chest."

Patrick's still looking up at him, and his eyes are so blue. But the blue's getting rapidly swallowed up by the way his pupils are enlarging and darkening. "It wasn’t painful," he says slowly.

"You sounded like I'd hurt you."

Patrick pauses, biting his lip again like he's gauging what he can say, and darts his tongue out to lick. Jonathan follows the movement with his eyes, and he's not even bothering to hide it this time.

"I'm just – really sensitive there, okay," Pat says at last, the flush in his face deepening until his cheeks are a pretty pink against the blueness of his wide eyes. "If – if you touch me there, too much, I'm just going to go off like a rocket."

And – oh. _Oh_. This is both everything and nothing like what Jonathan had expected. He swallows hard, lets his eyes flick down to Patrick's nipples, straining against his wifebeater. 

"Are they really," he says, and his voice has dropped an octave lower without him meaning it to.

"Yeah," Patrick whispers. 

Jonathan can feel his fingers twitch, aching to reach out and touch Pat. "I could try. See if it really gets you off. Maybe you're making this shit up."

There's a dim part of his brain that knows he's not making any sense, but he can't stop himself. It's like Patrick has shown him the rabbit hole and pushed him headlong into it; he's just enjoying the ride down now.

And so is Patrick, if his response is anything to go by. "Do your fucking worst," he says, and his lips curve up in a smirk, and Jonathan is so fucking done.

"Fuck you," he says, automatically, and reaches out to reel Pat in.

Patrick kisses like Jonathan expects, fucking dirty and hungry for it, tongue working sloppily into Jonathan's mouth. Jonathan bites at his lower lip, the one Pat works on all the time, driving him fucking crazy, and Patrick just laughs breathily into the kiss and fists his hands in Jonathan's shirt to drag him closer, chasing his mouth, kissing the air out of Jonathan's lungs until he's dizzy.

Jonathan splays a hand out against Patrick's chest and feathers a finger over his nipple, just a light back-and-forth touch, and Patrick wrenches his mouth away from Jonathan's, throwing his head back in a gasp that escalates into a moan when Jonathan leans forward and drags his tongue down the pale column of Patrick's throat.

"Fuck," Patrick whines, arching his back into the teasing stroke of Jonathan's finger. "Not playing fair."

"This isn’t about playing fair, this is about getting you off," Jonathan says, ducking his head to get his mouth on the other nipple, tongue pressing firmly into it.

Patrick bucks upwards and fucking moans so loud that Jonathan's momentarily startled, before he gets right back into it, licking slow and gentle over the nipple and getting the fabric nice and wet, thumbing the other one equally gently, because despite what he'd said, he really doesn’t want Patrick to come just yet.

"You need to tell me if you're close," he says, raspy, and then takes his hands off Pat long enough to pull the wifebeater over his head and yank his briefs down, tossing them thoughtlessly aside. Patrick's so flushed that the red reaches all the way down to his clavicles, but he nods. He's fully hard already, his dick swollen, and Jonathan grasps it briefly while he gets back to tonguing Pat's nipple, and Pat almost flies off the couch until Jonathan gets an arm over his belly and holds him down.

"Jesus," he says, lifting his head. There's a patch of his saliva glistening wetly on Patrick's right nipple, which is full and stiff. "You weren’t kidding when you said you were sensitive."

"I _told_ you, you fuck," Patrick gasps. His eyes are hazy with lust, almost completely black by now, the blue of his irises just a thin line around his pupils. Jonathan has never known how hot that is, the realization that he's done this to Pat.

"There's still so much I want to do to you. You can't go off yet."

"Like what?" Patrick says, and only he can manage to still sound challenging even when he's practically panting for it.

Jonathan pauses, pretends to think while his thumbs drift back to Patrick's nipples, rubbing and pressing in, and Patrick begins to gasp and writhe. "I don't know. Everything," he says. "I could suck you off, I could fuck you. Eat you out until you're wet and open and begging for my cock. You want that, Pat? I'd keep my fingers on your nipples while I did it. Get my tongue deep inside you, licking you open until you're so wet you don't even need my fingers to get you ready first. And I'd be rubbing at your nipples all the time, until they're sore, but I wouldn’t let up. I'd fucking pinch them while I fucked you with my tongue – " and he punctuates it with a vicious pinch to both nipples as he says it, and Patrick fucking _whimpers_ , body trembling, and bats Jonathan's hands away, babbling: "Stop, stop, fuck, stop."

Jonathan stops. Waits for Patrick to calm down. Patrick's cock, when he looks at it, is leaking like a fucking tap, the head gleaming with precome. Jonathan wants to get his mouth on it, taste it, taste all of Patrick.

But he waits until Patrick's body has stopped being rigid and his breathing is calmer.

"Good," he says softly. "Good. I want you to tell me if you're gonna come. I don't want you to come until I say you can."

Patrick actually _sobs_ , and he goes all glassy-eyed when he says "Fuck you, you're an asshole", but he spreads his legs and draws his knees up, resting his heels on the seat of the sofa, so his hole's exposed to Jonathan's hungry gaze.

"Get on with it," Patrick says, and really, Jonathan's supposed to be in charge here, he can't have that, so he just leans over to get his mouth on Patrick's nipple again, except he's rougher now, harsher, his tongue swiping rough across the tight swollen nub of Pat's nipple. Patrick cries out loud when Jonathan seals his mouth over it and sucks, _hard_ , his hips jerking up until he's rubbing his cock against Jonathan's body, frantic and rhythmless and needy.

Jonathan lets him do it, licking his way across Pat's chest to his other nipple and sucking it too, thumb circling the one he'd left, slicking his spit around it, until Patrick cries again, "Stop, stop, fucking – " and drags Jonathan's head off his chest with a hand tangled in his hair.

This time, Jonathan grabs a cushion and dumps it onto the floor between Pat's legs, and kneels on it, waiting for Pat to get himself under control.

"Fucking hell," Patrick says breathlessly, after a couple of minutes. "I'm good now. Fuck. Keep fucking going."

"Tell me what you want," Jonathan says. "Tell me _nicely_."

Patrick blinks at him, slow and dazed, like his lashes are weighed down with syrup. His mouth's fallen open, all red and wet, and one day, Jonathan thinks, one day he's going to get his cock in there, fuck that pliant mouth, really ruin it. 

Then Patrick says, "Eat me out, Jonny, fucking _please_ , you said you would."

He already sounds wrecked, and it destroys Jonathan, makes him really want to give Patrick what he wants.

He leans down to mouth at Patrick's balls first, licking down along the seam, until he reaches the tight clench of Pat's hole, and licks over it with the flat of his tongue, dirty-hot.

"Oh, fuck," Patrick moans, his body melting against Jonathan's mouth. "Fuck, more, Jonny, come on – "

Jonathan goes right in for it, alternating broad, lapping strokes with little feathery licks using just the very tip of his tongue, getting Patrick as wet as he possibly can. When he reaches up to pinch at his nipples again, Patrick whimpers, arching his spine into a lovely curve as he tries to push into both Jonathan's hands and mouth.

Jonathan stops, licks and kisses along the back of Pat's thigh, before biting into the crease between his ass and thigh while twisting Pat's nipples savagely between his fingers.

Patrick jerks, gasps, and grabs hold of his own cock for the first time, squeezing at the base. "Stop, fucking stop," he chokes, and Jonathan eases off.

When he deems Pat calm enough, he keeps his hands off his nipples this time (Jesus, he really wasn’t expecting them to be _this_ sensitive), but he works his tongue into Patrick's hole, feeling the soft indentation of it in the skin. Patrick starts gasping and squirming again when Jonathan begins to tongue fuck him properly, pulling away only to lick around his rim in light fluttery strokes, until Patrick is saying _please, please, Jonny please_ , before he works his tongue back in.

Patrick's thighs are clenching on either side of Jonathan's head, muscles rippling under the skin, shaking with the strain of holding himself open for Jonathan's mouth. His cock is practically dripping now, flushed dark red and gleaming wetly, and Jonathan really wants to taste him now, so he pulls back, gives his hole one last slow lingering lick – Patrick shudders – and then licks his way back up before he fits his lips over the head, tongue flicking delicately at it.

"Fucking hell," Patrick rasps, "Jonny, Jonny, god, you fucking shit, you're going to kill me – " and Jonathan can actually see his abs tense up, every groove and line standing out starkly on his skin.

Jonathan slides his mouth down over Patrick's cock, agonizingly slow, and he's not even applying any suction, just wrapping his lips loosely around it, but Patrick's already thrashing under him, bucking up as if he's trying to get more of his cock into Jonathan's mouth. 

"Shit, fuck, your fucking mouth," he gasps, and reaches down blindly to thumb at Jonathan's lips, spread taut over his dick. He works his thumb in at the corner of his mouth, and Jonathan takes it, licks over it before sucking it in alongside his cock, and Patrick dissolves into mindless moans, eyes fluttering open to stare at the way Jonathan's sucking both his cock and his finger before they shut again, as if it's way too much for Patrick to handle.

Jonathan swirls his tongue around before pulling off and sitting back, looking at Patrick until he blinks his eyes open and looks back at him; his eyes are wet, lips bitten red and plush, colour high on his cheekbones and his curls damp with sweat. He looks wrecked and beautiful and completely fucking delicious. Jonathan wants to spend the rest of his _life_ here on his knees, making Pat fall apart over and over with his mouth and his tongue and his hands.

"D'you want to come?" he asks, and Pat nods vigorously, chest heaving. "How do you want it? Tell me."

"Jonny," Patrick moans, turning his face away, but Jonathan is relentless.

"Tell me, Pat. I'll give it to you, whatever you want. I'll make you come, and I'll make it so fucking good for you, you just need to tell me."

"I – " Patrick starts, and then, as if he's decided that nothing's going to embarrass him further, says, "Your – your fingers. And your mouth. I want you to finger me while you eat me out and I want to come on your tongue like that."

Holy fuck. Jonathan has to reach down and palm his own neglected cock. So fucking filthy, but so perfect.

"Okay," Jonathan says, voice gone all deep and rough. "I can do that. You can touch yourself, okay?"

To his surprise, Pat shakes his head. "No – not like that, I said I want to come on your tongue and fingers. I don't need to touch my cock for that if you play with my nipples at the same time."

"Fucking hell," Jonathan breathes. "Yeah. Yeah I can. Lean back, get your legs open wider."

Patrick obeys without a word, too close to the edge to even think of chirping Jonathan, and it makes pride swell up in Jonathan's chest, unbidden and unexpected, that _he_ made Patrick this way, made him feel so good he can barely think straight. 

He goes back to licking Patrick open, using his lips more this time, pressing his mouth open over Patrick's hole while he works his tongue in and out of him. Patrick feels so fucking good, bracketing him with those strong thighs, hole soft and yielding for him. 

"Give me your hand," Patrick says shakily from above him, so he does, letting Pat pull it to his mouth and suck sloppily on it, licking between his fingers, getting it good and wet, before he lets Jonathan's hand drop, and Jonathan doesn’t hesitate, pushes a spit-slick finger into Patrick, and he can _feel_ it when Patrick groans.

"Good," Pat says, head lolling back on the couch, "good, one more, I'm good – "

So Jonathan gives it to him, slipping another finger in, gently stretching him open before he slides his tongue into the open V of his fingers inside Patrick. When he lifts his eyes, Patrick's already got a hand on his chest, tugging at his nipple in tandem with the rhythm of Jonathan's tongue fucking in and out of him, dirty and wet and slippery.

Then Jonathan ups the game by sliding his fingers in deeper, working them around, tilting them this way and that until – "oh, _there_ , fucking fuck" – he finds what he wants, and Patrick begins to thrash wildly about when he rubs his fingertips into that spot.

"I'm close, fucking close," Patrick gasps out brokenly, "don’t you dare stop, Jonny."

 _Not stopping_ , Jonathan thinks, and hopes Patrick gets the message when he begins to press hard into his prostate, fucking his tongue in as deep as it can go, spit dripping down his chin and Patrick's ass. He reaches up with his free hand to get at the nipple Patrick isn’t touching, holds it between his finger and thumb, rolling it easily.

"Fuck," Patrick yells, back arching, the curve of his spine beautiful and sleek. "Fuck – harder – I'm going to fucking come so hard – "

Jonathan pulls hard on Patrick's nipple just as Patrick's own hand twists his other nipple brutally, fucks his tongue deep into Patrick's hole, and then Pat is coming with his cock completely untouched, swearing in a litany of _fuck shit fuck Jonny god_ , and his hole clamps so tight around Jonathan's fingers and tongue that for a moment Jonathan can't even move, spurting up his chest and striping their hands and his nipples with come.

He works Patrick to the very end, until the last feeble dribble of come is dripping down Pat's cock and Pat is breathing hard and trying to work his hips back from Jonathan's searching fingers and mouth, and leans back on his haunches, wiping the back of his hand across his face. His knees are going to kill him tomorrow, but he doesn’t care; this was worth every minute, with Patrick looking absolutely debauched, wrung out and splayed over his couch, come all over his body and his hole red and used and softly clenching, filthy and wet.

"Jesus fuck," Patrick says, when he's able to speak, and he's slurring, sounding completely sex-drunk. "That was intense."

"Yeah," Jonathan replies. He runs a finger through the mess on Patrick's chest, and then on an impulse, slides his come-slick finger over Patrick's nipple. 

Pat hisses, just like he'd had when Jonathan first pressed his palm there over his wifebeater earlier, and pushes into the touch, although he pulls away after a while, saying breathlessly, "No, not yet, too sensitive."

Jonathan snorts. "You're fucking sensitive anyway, don't even try to front."

"Shut up," Patrick snaps, but he pulls Jonathan up anyway, until Jonathan's lying half across him and kissing him, Pat leisurely licking the taste of himself out of his mouth, and fuck, that's hot too. Jonathan has no idea when and how Patrick's suddenly so fucking sexy to him, but it makes him push his cock against his thigh, reminding him subtly about it. He hasn’t even undressed and he's so hard that he thinks he'll blow if Patrick just jerks him a bit.

Instead, Patrick just pulls back and says, "Give me ten minutes, and then you can fuck me."

Christ. Jonathan's cock twitches in his shorts.

"I – are you sure?"

"No, I'm not sure, that's why I fucking _offered it_ ," Pat says sarcastically. "Fucking wait, and then you're going to fuck me, and I'm going to come again on your cock."

Jonathan remembers how Pat had felt like around his fingers and tongue when he'd come earlier, that hot clingy tightness, imagines that around his cock, and hopes he can hold out long enough to make Pat come a second time.

"Okay," he says, his voice sounding like it's been dragged over gravel, and Patrick grins up at him, all teeth and wide hazy eyes.


End file.
